


Fictober drabble collection

by Sechee



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Break Up, Canonical Character Death, Drabble Collection, F/M, Fictober 2017, First Kiss, Fluff, Gen, M/M, One Word Prompts, One drabble a day keeps the boredom away, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, Pre-Inception, Project Somnacin, Sad?, Uncle!Arthur, mostly my headcanon backstory for Arthur??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-07 20:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12240183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sechee/pseuds/Sechee
Summary: A collection of drabbles for the Fictober thingie I saw on Slack.1. Swift: His job was easy enough to explain: Always be ready. Assume the worst. Put the back-up plan in motion in a matter of minutes. Never be caught by surprise.2. Divided: Arthur needed to put and end to this.3. Poison: Arthur and Eames have a talk about Project Somnacin. "I don’t know about you but when the government offers free drugs I’m always a little uneasy."9. Screech: It's a very selfish business they're in.





	1. Swift

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to katythereader for poping up with this one on Slack. Yup, you've made this happen.

Swift:

  1. moving or capable of moving with great speed
  2. occurring suddenly or within a very short time
  3. quick to respond



* * *

He should have seen this coming. That was his job. Always be ready. Assume the worst. Put the back-up plan in motion in a matter of minutes. Never be caught by surprise. How was he supposed to do all of this now? He needed a plan, fast. The longer he stood there, the worse the situation was going to be. Not that it could get any worse that _this._ No. No. Assume the worst. It could get worse. Mal was dead – _Jesus no Mal was dead ohgod Mal beautiful and sweet and the only helping hand in Paris a lifetime ago and what about the kids what were they going to do no no nonono_ – stop. No time for feelings. Later. When the plan is made and the three back-up plans are solid. Mal was dead – _god_ – but Dom was alive which meant that things could get worse because the man was going to do something stupid. Arthur needed to step up and take control of everything because he was the point man and that was his job.

He looked down at the phone still in his hands – _shaking because Mal was dead and he should have seen this coming he had failed again even though he was supposedly the best how could he have not seen the signs_ – stop. Stop. First the plan. He checked the time. Three minutes since the phone call. He needed to get moving.

He took three steps from the kitchen counter he was leaning on, pocketed his keys, took his gun and the two back-up weapons he always carried.

_(His flat, when he left, stilled in the left-over regret and pain._

_It would burn to the ground five weeks later in an unresolved case of apparent arson.)_


	2. Divided

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the lovely deinvati for beta-ing this one! Without you, the sentences and pronouns of this drabble wouldn't make sense!

October 2nd: Divided

  1. separated into parts or pieces
  2. disagreeing with each other; disunited
  3. separated by distance



* * *

 

He had convinced himself at first that this was nothing, just casual sex like it eventually always happened in the business – most of them enjoyed the little gossip it created, a way to feel normal and human again. He realized his mistake when he heard their two names together for the sixth time in five weeks.

_“Arthur and Eames.”_

Shit.

He had let his guard down. Again.

He had already made that error once, with Cobb, and it was an understatement to say that it hadn’t ended well. It had been different then, but their names had been connected in the same way; everyone knew that he was _Cobb’s_ point man, that if anyone wanted to work with Dom they didn’t have to worry about finding someone to do the research because Dom always had his own little point man with him and never let anyone else fill those shoes. He had only realized all of this _after_. After Mal. He’d had to distance himself from Dom who was taking job after reckless job, barely checking the clients anymore. This detachment was only temporary, only until Dom found balance again. If he ever managed that feat.

And he had repeated that mistake. Realization hit him like a kick, waking him up.

They couldn’t keep this up. People associating him and Eames meant that their relationship was pretty much common knowledge at this point, and wait what the fuck? He had never thought of them as in a ‘relationship’ before.

Shit.

This was worse than he thought. Shit shit shit.

He had to put a stop to this _whatever it was_. He had already seen it happen to a handful of others in the business: Yara and Mantas – one dead and the other a shadow of herself now, her mind scattered all over the place. Carly and that chemist from Russia, Aziz and his architect, hell even _Cobb and Mal_ – but that was different, they had been torn apart by other awful things and he wouldn’t start thinking about this, not about Mal and her big sad eyes, her bright smile and her accent and _stop._

The point was, this job was a lonely one, and would always be so for the safety of those involved. Relationships could be used and twisted and turn into problems no one needed. It was harder to protect yourself when there were two people to protect at the same time. There was a reason they all split after jobs, a reason why contact was made through hidden channels, a reason why you never trusted anybody. It could get you – or _someone else_ – killed. Just like that.

How could he have been so careless? Getting himself into something like this.

Breathe. Facts first, eventual panic second.

Their relationship was a few months old – and here it was, that word again. He was so screwed, he needed to end this _right now_ before it got even more out of hand.

Facts, back to facts, concentrate. Like any other job.

Fact: they had sex. Fact: they had taken jobs together _a lot_ , but they were the best in their field so it would make sense for people to call the both of them if they didn’t want a fuck-up of a job. Fact: people in the business thought they were some sort of couple. Fact: they often stayed in each other’s flats while on a job – it was just much more convenient, really.

Fact:

Eames would die for him.

Shit. This couldn’t be happening. He wouldn’t let this happen. He needed to clear the flat, throw his burner and back-up phone, stay low for a little while, disappear. He couldn’t give Eames an explanation; Eames was good with words and with people, he would find a way to convince Arthur that he was being paranoid, that there was nothing _wrong_ with them, that they were in love.

Fact: Arthur couldn’t allow himself to love the bastard back. It was too dangerous, to love someone.

He left that night, lied low in a small town in Switzerland, taking small research-only jobs he could do without meeting his teammates IRL. Small, easy tasks that left his mind with too much time to think. He knew Eames wouldn’t hate him for too long; Arthur had killed their thing in the womb before it could do disastrous damage. Timing had always been a strong suit of his.

_(They would only see each other again seven months later._

_They would stay distant for another nineteen months.)_


	3. Poison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to deinvati for being the beta everyone dreams of!

October 3rd: Poison

  1. a substance that through its chemical action usually kills, injure, or impairs an organism
  2. something destructive or harmful
  3. a substance that inhibits the activity or another substance or the course of a reaction process



* * *

“Why are you so worried? It’s not like they’d poison us on purpose. Not after going through the effort of picking the best of the best. Which is us, by the way.”

“It’s a drug, Eames. I don’t know about you but when the government offers free drugs I’m always a little uneasy.”

“Oh yes because the government obviously offered you free drugs many times before –”

“That’s not the point and you know it. Aren’t you worried at all?”

“My dear Arthur, are you really telling me you’ve been perfectly fine with this Project Somnacin bullshit, but now they are suggesting to shoot us up with something which, shall I remind you, is supposed to make the dreams more stable and make _us_ more in control, and suddenly you freak out? Isn’t that what we wanted since the beginning? What we always complained about? I thought you were also tired of dreams collapsing without reasons and random shit happening all the time. Remember that time Dom made puppies rain down outside the hotel we were building?”

Iconic.

“You haven’t answered my question, Mr. Eames.”

“Hey don’t ‘Mr. Eames’ me there.”

They were both avoiding the other’s questions, and they both knew it. Arthur rolled his eyes. He had been fine with the first few versions of the Somnacin drug, but now they kept making it stronger. He hadn’t been exactly ok with the compound they had introduced last time – three weeks? Was it three weeks ago? His timeline was completely fucked up by now – but now they wanted to add a little bit of yet another drug to put them deeper under when they dreamed. Supposedly it would make the dream oh so much more stable, and General Collins had said they’d be able to twist the dreams in ways they couldn’t even imagine.

Of course, Cobb and Eames were delighted and more excited than kids on Christmas Eve.

The army was lucky Arthur trusted Dr. Miles, otherwise they’d have lost him three changes of compound ago.

“What’s the real problem here, love?”

_Nothing. Absolutely no thing._

“I don’t trust them, is all.”

“Well of course you don’t. Nobody does. Nothing new there.”

Eames’ stare had lost that little sparkle, which meant the banter was over. Arthur hated it when Eames was serious; because when he stopped fooling around, Eames could read into anyone, like they were an outdated magazine on the side of his coffee table. Arthur might always complain about Eames being childish, but it was all part of that act they had going. They never spoke about it, but they both were too brilliant to ignore what they were _actually_ doing. Their banter often had a second, sometimes a third meaning, and they knew the other would always understand those extra hidden layers. It was like they had a game of chess going on, an imaginary board in their heads, their words like rooks, pawns and bishops moving between them. They broke the act more and more these days, mainly because between all those experiments and dying in dreams and insomnia, they didn’t have the energy to play anymore.

It was clear to Arthur that Eames would know his secrets in a not-so-distant future, because the Englishman was actually pretty fucking clever and Arthur was less and less focused, the bags under his eyes darkening with each dreamed-up bullet in his dreamed-up head. He was slipping, and they both knew it.

Arthur just wanted Eames not to ask questions.

“Tell me what’s really going on.”

Of course. Arthur didn’t know why he expected Eames to shut up and leave him alone anymore. It never happened.

He put a hand through his hair, over his exhausted eyes, and sighed.

“Nothing. I’m just tired. And I wonder how much further they’re going to drag this drug thing. They could shoot us up with heroin next month and neither Cobb nor you would say anything if it meant having more control over the dreams.”

_Shit, why did he say that?! Eames was going to figure it out, of course he was, it was Eames, Arthur had let it slip, it was too late now shitshitshit._

“So that’s what it’s about?”

Arthur froze. Eames was staring intently at him, probably taking in his wrinkled shirt, the sleeves messily rolled up, the small, old scars on his forearms showing. He straightened his slightly hunched shoulders, dragged down by unhealthy amounts of sleep – actual sleep, not what they did with the Somnacin team.

Of course Eames noticed. He watched Arthur, saw the shadow under his whiskey-colored eyes. Things made more sense now. He went on.

“You think you need to look out for Cobb and me because someone has to? Darling, we’re not idiots, you don’t need to worry about us. We’re all adults, we know what we’re doing.”

They were talking in riddles again, they both knew it. The act was back up. Arthur didn’t have any illusions: Eames knew his secret now. _Shit!_ He had to say something, keep up the act, keep Eames at bay.

“Well, between Cobb flirting with Dr. Miles and you flirting with anything that breathes, I didn’t realize you were professional adults. My bad.”

Eames’ smile was sad, which was weird because Eames was never sad in their acts, he was playful and annoying and flirty and laughing. Arthur didn’t know if he could stand breaking the act _now_ , not after Eames picking up on his revelation.

He thought Eames was going to say something, something serious, but their phones made a harmonious sound at the same time.

They needed to get down there and dream.

The bubble between them popped, Eames smiling a real smile again, Arthur sighing quietly, putting his suit jacket back on.

_(They never talked about the drugs again._

_But Eames took the opportunity of a flirty conversation to ask Dr. Miles what was really in those compounds._

_The way she looked at him made it very clear that she was also aware of Arthur’s secret. Eames pretended it didn’t hurt that Arthur had told her, that she had known before him.)_


	4. Underwater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to katythereader for her late-night beta work <3 (and for explaining Google Docs to me because I'm a newbie)

October 4th : Underwater

  1. lying, growing, worn, performed or operating below the surface of the water
  2. being below the waterline of a ship



* * *

Arthur was bad with words. When he was under, on a job, he was able to blend into the persona he was supposed to play, say exactly what the mark needed to hear to relax and trust him. But when the dreams and acts were over, he had a hard time _talking_. Explaining. Having a meaningful conversation. Not the theories he exchanged with Dom about dream-building or the banter with the annoying forger they worked with sometimes. Mal often forced him to have those conversations, but as much as he wanted – maybe not _wanted_ , but _allowed himself_ – to tell her, the words were stuck in his throat, his mind became blank, and he found himself getting upset that he couldn’t _say_ anything.

He was in the Cobbs’ flat in Paris. Dom was out running some errand, which left only Arthur and Mal.

He felt good around her most of the time. Relaxed.

_“Est-ce que tu dirais qu’on est amis, Arthur?”_

_“Quoi? Bien sûr. Ça sort d’où, ça?”_

They were quite good friends – an amazing pair, really. Mal sometimes referred to him as her _petit frère d’adoption_ , calling him _frérot_. He always tensed when she did that.

Oh. Her question made sudden sense. He had to tell her, she deserved to know why he was distant sometimes, why he tensed when she used those names. He looked for words. Didn’t find any.

_“Je… attends. Suis-moi.”_

***

The first thing Mal saw in the dream was a mountain range on the horizon. It reminded her of the Alps she would see while on winter holidays with her parents, except these mountains weren’t as high, and they didn’t sport a delicate snow blanket. Arthur was standing next to her. He was wearing a light blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up, the top button undone, his suit jacket slung casually over his shoulders. Said shoulders were tense, which confirmed Mal’s assumption that the laid-back appearance was only a mask.

They were standing on a dirt road, in a landscape that looked like somewhere in the Balkans, maybe. The scattered, small buildings around them couldn’t have contained more than one or two rooms. They grew denser as Mal swept her eyes east, forming a town a handful of kilometers away. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, letting the warmth of the late morning sun grace her face, smelling grass and regret in the wind.

This was a memory. One of Arthur’s memories. Mal opened her eyes.

There was a lake behind them. Arthur had started walking towards it without a word, trusting her to follow him. She did, a few paces behind, her light summer dress flying around her calves in the wind.

They couldn’t have been walking for more than two minutes when Arthur stopped. Mal looked up. They were still about two hundred meters from the lake. There were two children, a boy and a girl, crouched next to it. They were playing quietly, rippling the blue water with sticks. Their voices carried excitement, in a language Mal didn’t understand.

Definitely somewhere in the Balkans.

She looked at Arthur. He was watching the two kids, his face completely blank. His hair was a little messy from the wind, strands falling in his eyes. Suddenly he looked down, eyes squeezed shut, and Mal heard the splashing sound of something falling in the water. Her head whipped back to the children.

The boy was alone, standing frozen by the lake. He seemed to be looking down towards the water.

Mal turned back to Arthur. She was opening her mouth to speak as he shot her in the head.

***

_(“That was Albania.”_

_“That was my sister.”_

_“I sometimes feel guilty when I’m with you.”)_


	5. Long

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to katythereader for her beta work and her support. This one was hard to figure out.

October 5th: Long

  1. extending for a considerable distance
  2. extending for a considerable time
  3. extending far into the future



* * *

“Took you long enough.”

Eames has burst into the room to see Arthur standing in the middle of it, his suit barely wrinkled, his hair falling a little on his forehead. The point man’s right hand is holding his gun, pointed at an angle in the direction of the man sprawled on the carpet, a puddle of blood growing under his body.

“Arthur, what the bloody – no never mind. We need to get going. There’s probably more coming."

Arthur turns around, grabs the suitcase that contains the PASIV, and strides past him. Eames catches a whiff of his cologne, mixed with blood, and a faint tint of sweat. He hurries after him.

“It didn’t take me long at all, by the way. I was in the room litteraly seconds after I heard the first gunshot.”

“Well, you were late to the party anyway, Mr. Eames.”

And just like that he is gone.

***

“Took you long enough.”

“Darling, would you please let me work in peace?”

“I guess the tables have turned for once.”

They are dreaming, preparing for a job. Eames is sitting in front of a mirror, his reflection that of the mark’s nephew. He’s had trouble with this one, but he is never one to turn down a challenge.

When Eames turns, Arthur is faced with a five-year-old boy, all big innocent eyes and curly hair. The boy’s voice is high-pitched and exuberant the way only a child’s can be, but he sounds annoyed.

“I got it down now, didn’t I?”

“I’m just saying that you’re usually quicker to build your forges.”

The child sighs.

“Do I ever comment on your research?”

Arthur pauses, an amused twinkle in his eyes.

“Yes. Yes, Eames, all the time.”

The child rolls his eyes, turning back to the mirror. The voice that anwers Arthur’s jab is deep and drawls out a whispered “fuck you” before they both opens their eyes to the grey ceilling of the warehouse.

***

“Took you long enough.”

Eames sighs as he slides onto the barstool next to Arthur.

“Yes Arthur, it _did_ take me long enough. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a storm raging outside. They’re actually calling it a hurricane.”

Arthur smiles. He’s growing to like annoying Eames more than he should. He can even begin to see why Eames gets a kick out of it. Maybe.

“Are you telling me that the great Mr. Eames is thrown off by a little rain? I’m disappointed.”

“A _hurricane_ , darling. A bloody hurricane. Sorry to break it to you, but we mortals are sometimes late. We can’t always be perfectly on time like you. Now can we start on the job, or do you want to just sit here and chat? ”

Arthur’s smile shows dimples, and he reaches down to take out the file he has already started putting together.

They bounce ideas off of each others for the remainder of the night.

***

Arthur is getting tired of running away from bad guys. He misses the time when dreamshare and extraction were so new that no one even dared to imagine it could be real; a time when they didn’t have to worry about the mark – or anyone else – coming after them for revenge or other such bullshit. Then he remembers that those times were _army_ times, and the nostalgia evaporates somewhat.

They’re in Mombasa, because _of course_ they are, and Arthur swears that he’ll never step foot into this city again because all the fucked-up jobs happen there.

He hears a gunshot from somewhere behind him and takes cover behind a car. He crouches there for a few seconds, closes his eyes, breathes in through his nose. His left arm is throbbing where he got shot a handful of minutes ago. When he opens his eyes again, Eames is next to him, out of breath.

They exchange a look and stand at the same time, their guns sending a chaotic storm of bullets.

Everything stands still for a few heartbeats, the thugs lying on the ground, pieces of plaster slowly falling on the street around them. They look at each other again, checking for blood and death because it’s the _real world_ , the bullets are real, the blood is real, the threat is real.

Eames’ lips crash on Arthur’s.

“Took you long enough.”

They kiss again.


	6. Sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a stuggle, but after a few failed attempts and a lot of me complainig on Slack, I managed to figure it out. Hugs to katythereader and deinvati for their beta read (and sorry katy that you took time on something I won't publish in the end, but I think we'll both agree that the drabble was unsalvageable)

October 6th: Sword

  1. a weapon with a long blade for cutting or thrusting that is often used as a symbol of honor or authority
  2. an agency or instrument of destruction or combat
  3. coercive power



* * *

In his mind, Arthur has a folder full of things most people don’t know about. It’s filled with very different aspects of himself, sometimes involving people, sometimes places, sometimes just himself. One of the files in this folder is that he really enjoys babysitting Dom’s kids. Most people assume that since he dresses like a cold businessman he doesn’t like children and, honestly, most of the time he doesn’t, but Philippa and James are an exception. An amazing, heart-warming exception.

They call him _Uncle Arthur_ and he never thought this would happen in his life. He should have known when he started to think of Mal and Dom as _family_ that it would all go downhill from there. Well, uphill actually. Way up.

He’s babysitting the kids today – Philippa would throw a fit if he ever said that out loud because she’s _not a kid anymore, Uncle Arthur. James is, but I’m not. I’m the big sister._ He’s babysitting and he’s thoroughly enjoying every second of it.

“Uncle Arthur! We need to go now! We have to rescue the princess!”

It takes a little while for James to explain what is going on, but now Arthur is up-to-date with today’s game.

James is a knight. Well, actually, Philippa is too. He’s asked his sister to be the princess, but she wanted to be a knight, so they’re both knights. When Arthur asks what his role is, James says he is the king.

Eames’ snort and subsequent comment can be heard from the kitchen, where he’s supposed to be quietly reading a book. Yeah, the Cobbs often make Arthur babysit Eames too.

“See, love? The kids agree with me that you’re a little dictator.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. James looks confused for a few seconds, and Philippa steps in.

“Nah, he should be the president, not the king.”

James is almost personally offended, because _presidents don’t have castles, Fi!_ He agrees with his sister in the end, partly because her argument convinced him – Arthur wears suits, therefore he’s definitely a president – but mainly it’s because his big sister always have the best ideas, and is pretty much never wrong.

“He could also be Prime Minister, if you ask me.”

Eames has migrated from the kitchen to the living room, and he’s leaning on the wall at the far end of the room, observing them with a little smirk. Arthur sighs.

“Don’t make things more difficult than they already are, Eames.”

His attention is back to the children, who are making up a plan now that Arthur’s role has been settled.  They have to go rescue the princess, who is held hostage in the forest. They’ll have to beat the bear that lives there – _that’s Fi’s job since the bear was her idea, Uncle Arthur. Me I’ll fight the dragon!_

Arthur smiles, forming a plan of his own in his head. He clears his throat.

“You can’t go on your quest right now, though. Eames doesn’t have a role yet.”

“Oh I can be the bad, nasty bear. Actually I can totally be the dragon too!”

James and Philippa exchange a look, and seem to have a silent conversation for about two seconds, before Philippa, as the big sister, turns towards Eames. She speaks to him like an adult would when explaining something a small child, because obviously she shouldn’t have to clarify this.

“No, Eames, you’re the princess.”

Arthur hides a smile in his hand as Philippa leads James towards the garden, ready to fight the bear.

“See, Eames. The kids agree with me that you’re a drama queen.”

“ _Princess_ , Arthur. A drama _princess._ ”

With this he turns around, walking back to the kitchen.

Yeah, Arthur loves looking after James and Philippa. Babysitting Eames isn’t as exasperating when his little niece and nephew are around.


	7. Shy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another thank you to katythereader for being such an amazing help for me this month!

October 7th: Shy 

  1. easily frightened
  2. disposed to avoid a person or thing 



* * *

He was sitting at the table where he spent all his lunch breaks. He was alone, as usual, and it was for the best. Sometimes Yusuf would sit with him, ranting over and over about some scientific discovery or a break-through in chemistry.

“Stuff is happening in the world right now, Arthur. We can’t just watch it pass by.”

Arthur didn’t mind lunch with Yusuf, because the guy spoke for the both of them and then some. He never expected an answer from Arthur, which was fine with him. He wasn’t really into that _talking_ thing anyway. He hated wasting his breath on unimportant details, exchanging platitudes and small talk. Worse, when people ran out of small talk, they plugged themselves into Gossip Radio. Arthur hated Gossip Radio above anything else. People called him shy. He wasn’t, not really; it was just that they usually weren’t interesting enough to trigger a response from him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a girl walking towards him. A quick search in his memory brought up words: _French, new._ Arthur frowned. There were normally more words surrounding the other students.

He pretended not to have seen her, pulled the hood of his hoodie over his head, and looked back down to his book.

When he’d first arrived at this high school, people had assumed he didn’t talk because he couldn’t speak English. Some guys had started picking on him, but most had stopped after he’d broken a nose or two. Those who’d kept being annoying, he had dug up their dirty secrets and had posted them online. He’d been left alone since then.

The girl sat down on the other side of the table, on his right instead of directly in front of him. Arthur pretented harder to be reading the book on his lap.

They spent the rest of the break like this; Arthur lost in his thoughts, his eyes fixed on the pages of the book, unseeing. The girl had put earphones on at some point, and was looking off to her left, observing the other kids. Two minutes before the bell, she got up, put her headphones back into her bag, ran a hand through her hair, and left.

***

It had become an habit by now. They’d both sit at the table, never saying anything to each other, and go their separate ways when the break was over.

Yusuf still came from time to time, and was delighted to have someone else to explain chemistry to; Mal – Arthur had learned her name thanks to Yusuf – answered him sometimes, asking questions in an heavily accented voice, keeping Yusuf on track so that he didn’t lose himself in his own rants.

They weren’t _friends_ , not exactly. But maybe they would be one day.


	8. Crooked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to deinvati for the beta-read and for being overall really supportive on this one. (I might write the 50k that seem to be missing once I'm finished with fictober <3)

October 8th: Crooked

  1. not straight
  2. dishonest 



* * *

They have gone through the plan one last time, and now what they need is rest. The job will start in two days, and the entire team is absolutely ready for a 36-hours-long power nap.

Eames has just one last thing to do before going to bed, though. Arthur has disappeared immediately after Dom’s final speech, the door closing after him like a final point to Dom’s sentence.

Eames looks in three different places before finding Arthur on the roof of the warehouse. Berlin streches out before them, light up by streetlights and small white windows, the TV tower looming over the city. Eames hasn’t visited the area, but he’s pretty sure that the tower is visible from anywhere in Berlin.

Arthur is sitting down in the dark, back resting against the short wall that runs along the edge of the roof. He’s smoking a cigarette, and doesn’t put it out when Eames settles down next to him. Apparently, Arthur trusts him enough to share his not- _so-_ bad secret with him, and Eames’ chest does a little warm thing at the thought. Pretty much everyone knows that Arthur smokes, but it seems that no one has ever seen him with a cigarette. Well, Eames has, now.

They stay that way for a few minutes, Arthur smoking quietly. Every time he brings the cigarette to his lips their shoulders brush with the motion. Arthur throws it away with a flick of his fingers once he’s done, and reaches into his pocket to light another one. He closes his eyes, exhales the smoke and finally speaks.

“Do you think we’re still the good guys?”

Eames’ first thought is _no_ , but he keeps quiet, waiting for Arthur to continue.

“Back in the army, when they first introduced the Somnacin project, I thought we were going to do just what we did before; do bad things, but for the good guys, so it was okay. Now…” He sighs, running his left hand over his face. “What are we doing here, Eames?”

Everything about this is so very _not_ Arthur. Talking about these things, admitting his doubts, including Eames in his last question. Eames is starting to suspect there’s something more behind this than just morals. They’ve been in this business for too long for it to come up only now.

Eames doesn’t have answers to that question. He’s come to terms with being on the wrong side of the law too long ago for him to be of any help. So he just sits there next to Arthur in silent support. He knows for a fact that Arthur understands his non-answer.

_(I don’t know what we’re doing, but we’re together and it’s good enough for me.)_


	9. Screech

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for deinvati for the initial idea (sort of) and for beta-ing yet another drabble! Special thanks also to everyone whom I've talked to on Slack today, you're all amazing and I love you.

October 9th: Screech 

  1. a high shrill piercing cry usually expressing pain or terror



* * *

Everything is going smoothly. They’ve managed to reach the second level of the dream, a quiet european-like town that should remind the mark of her childhood and give her a sense of security. She’s left her secrets where they expected her to, in the bedroom of one of the houses, in a journal hidden under the mattress.

Cobb is going through it at the moment, Arthur watching the street from the window. There aren’t many projections around, which makes sense considering the size of the town. He can only see a handful of them walking by, and wonders how many are hiding in the small wooden houses.

“Okay, I got it all. We can go back.”

Arthur turns to Dom at the sound of his voice, and is met by the barrel of his gun. It fires a shot and Arthur is suddenly sitting down on a metal chair, Dom a few feet in front of him, blinking the lingering memories of the town away.

Arthur has to remind himself that they are _still_ dreaming. None of them are used to using multiple dream layers on a job yet because rumor that extraction is possible is only starting to get around, but some of their marks are training their minds against them. Not well enough not to lower their shields once they’re on a second-level dream, but Arthur is positive it’ll only be a matter of time before the good old days of easy jobs is well behind them. It’s still new to them, having to extract on sub-levels to avoid suspicion.

This dream is their architect’s, a young girl with short hair who claims to be Sandra, a twenty-two years old History student, but whose real name is Rachel. She’s eighteen. Arthur hacked her after their first meeting, because there was _no way_ this girl was as old as him. He was right, and made sure Cobb knew what they were getting themselves into.

They’ve been working together for about three weeks on this job, and Arthur is starting to grow fond of her, if he forgets about all the lies she feeds them. He doesn’t comment on those but makes a mental note to make sure later that she realizes she isn’t fooling anyone. He might even be nice about it, if only to keep a good relationship between them in case of future jobs because they could use an architect as talented as her.

As Arthur looks around, the contrast between the two levels is like a slap in the face. Where the small town was quiet and virtually empty, the projections here are starting to riot outside. Extracting using multiple levels has told them that the subconscious doesn’t take kindly to being twisted like this, which makes their job even harder.

Arthur is halfway through standing up when he’s forcefully shoved back on the chair by what feels like an earthquake. Their architect looks at them, pretending to be bored, but her voice has a trace of worry in it when she speaks.

“It’s been like this for about fifteen minutes here. I don’t know what is going on up top but I think we should hurry up and check it out.” She seems to remember suddenly about the reason they’re here and adds, “You got the information we need, right?”

Dom simply nods. He never speaks much during jobs, but Arthur can see he’s also worried of what they might find once they’re awake. This entire marks-being-trained-against-extraction thing is fresh and new and usually brings bad surprises.

Everything suddenly starts to crumble around them, pieces of the wooden roof creaking and falling. Arthur whips his head to where Sandra – _Rachel_ – was standing two seconds ago, and finds the spot empty. He hasn’t heard the deafening sound of a gunshot though, which can only mean that Anton has given her the kick. _What the hell is going on up there?_

Two bullets later both he and Dom are finally back to reality. It still messes with Arthur that it takes dying two times to be awake, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it because he can feel the barrel of a gun pressed on the back of his neck. It’s gone a second later as a gunshot rings out, and then everything stands still.

Sandra is lowering her gun, her entire body trembling, and Arthur realises it was probably her first time killing a real person instead of projections or dreaming teammates. He files this information to be addressed later and takes in the hotel room around him.

Two men are lying on the floor, their blood ruining the delicate wood. Arthur recognizes them as members of the mark’s dangerous and powerful family. That explains the sharp turn to Shitland this job has taken. Somewhere down the line someone has shot the mark. She’s still sitting on the desk chair they’ve forced her onto, her face covered in blood from a headshot.

Dom is kneeling on the floor, taking care of the PASIV. Anton is looking through the window of the room. Sandra has put the gun down and is composing herself, running a hand through her hair. She’s taking a deep, trembling breath, when Anton’s voice breaks the silence.

“There are more coming, and the gunshots have probably forced the hotel staff to call the police.”

They really need to leave the room.

It’s only when they reach the lobby that things go from bad to _holy shit._ The place is swarming with people. All the hotel’s clients want to get the fuck out of here, the police want to get the fuck inside, and the mark’s family probably just wants to kill the fuck out of them.

Anton is the first to react, his black ops training kicking in. Arthur knows for a fact that he’ll run until he’s safe, never once looking back to see how his teammates are faring. Arthur honestly can’t blame him; it’s a very selfish business they’re in.

Dom follows Anton half a second later, dragging Sandra by the arm, and Arthur takes the rear. They’re running towards the back door because there’s no way they’ll manage to reach the main entrance when it’s filled to the brim like this.

They hear shots behind them, followed by the crowd’s panicked screams. None of them stop to see what’s happening.

They burst through the door and keep running in a straight line. Dom has let go of Sandra, but Arthur keeps an eye on her, slowing down a notch to make sure he won’t run past her.

Everything happens so quickly after that – granted, things were going pretty fast already, but suddenly they’re in the middle of traffic and still _not_ _stopping_ , because stopping at this point means getting caught and there’s no way that is happening.

Cars are honking around them, adding to the confusion, and Arthur hears tires screeching on his left. He manages to slide on the hood of the car coming his way and lands on his feet on its other side. He immediately gets back to running, trying to concentrate, but his vision is swimming and everything around him is too loud, speed and shouts and honks and tires and gunshots and –

He hears the sound of broken glass, sees limbs flying, blood, hears more yelling and screeching tires and _fuck no nonono_. He almost stops, eyes trained on Sandra’s body, face down on the pavement, before something grabs his bicep and drags him forwards. Arthur lets himself be led to the sidewalk. They keep on running for about ten minutes, and Arthur is glad that Dom is guiding him through the winding streets because his mind is a complete blank mess and _no, shit no, what the fuck nononono._

He comes around when Dom has repeated his name enough times for him to register. They’re sitting in a café. Everything is quiet again.

_(Arthur will find her death certificate two days later._

_He hates himself for not stopping, and hates himself a little more for finding excuses.)_

_(“Do you think we’re still the good guys?”)_


	10. Gigantic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to deinvati for the beta!

October 10th: Gigantic 

  1. exceeding the usual or expected (as in size, force, or prominence)



* * *

He was almost disappointed when he opened his eyes. He was the third to go, and the first two had been Cobb and Eames, who were both geniuses in their own right and whose subconscious had created incredible dreamscapes for their first time under. Cobb’s city had been huge but precise, and Arthur had had to remind himself about once every seven minutes that what he was experiencing wasn’t reality. Eames had built build an entire casino – _figures_ – and everything was spot on, down to the faint background music and the smell of the coffee Arthur had ordered at the bar. That had earned the both of them a clap on the back by the colonel, and a bright smile by Dr. Miles.

Arthur would have been disappointed by what his subconscious had produced if it wasn’t for the euphoria he was feeling. They’d been training for what felt like ages in order to be ready for this moment. Hours of dream theories and lectures and experimentations had led them to this first dive into _actually_ sharing a dream while being in control. It was incredible.

“Now, that just confirms what I thought about you, darling.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. Who else but Eames could possibly ruin a moment like this?

“The military base? Really? Love, I know you can’t really control that stuff but that’s just shameful. No imagination whatsoever.”

Arthur was very close to punching the smirk from Eames’ face when the colonel intervened.

“On the contrary, this is perfect. Try to change something, now.”

_Okay, what the hell?_

Thankfully, Cobb was as surprised as him, and spoke before Arthur’s confusion could be too obvious.

“You mean, right now? Make him create live? I thought this was just a trial, to get an idea of what our dreamscapes feel like.”

Of course Cobb would have been pissed that it wasn’t him, with his architectural background, who had been asked to live-build when they were in his dream. It really shouldn’t have made Arthur that happy to see Cobb upset, but it did, and he didn’t dwell on it. 

“Yes, I mean right now. You know the theory; let’s see how it translates to practice on a first try.”

Arthur felt a little hopeless because as much as he wanted to shut both Eames and Cobb up, the gap between theory and practice when it came to creating in a dreamspace was so huge it was basically the Grand Canyon. Arthur closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on doing _anything._ He honestly couldn’t tell if it was working or not.

He got his answer about two minutes later when he heard something like thunder outside, and the room started to shake violently. It went on for at least thirty seconds, both Eames and Cobb staring starting at him, clearly wondering just what the _fuck_ he was doing. Arthur was as clueless as them. Then everything finally stood still, dust falling lazily to the ground.

The colonel didn’t seem overly perturbed by the reaction and simply walked out of the room once the earthquake was over.

Cobb followed him almost immediately, and Eames looked intently at Arthur before joining them outside. Arthur sighed. _Great_. An earthquake. Way to go to impress this team. He composed himself and walked outside.

The blinding sun and the raging heat were welcoming, for once. _At least I got that right._

Arthur turned around once his eyes were used to the abrupt change of light, and he just managed to keep his jaw from dropping thanks to his self-control. Eames didn’t.

Instead of the endless nothingness that normally surrounded the base, there no stood an impressive mountain range. It was unnaturally close to them, the jagged rock only a few feet away. Some peaks were so tall that the top wasn’t visible, even when Arthur craned his neck and squinted. It seemed endless, stretching past the horizon, and the barrier it created made images of the Berlin wall come to mind.

Eames whistled. The colonel had a smile on his face. They spent the remainder of the dream silently walking along the range.

***

Eames had been impressed by what he now referred to as the ‘Edmund Hillary incident’ for a grand total of fifteen minutes before turning it into yet another way to tease Arthur. He’d been having a blast with his new running gag, changing Arthur’s alarm to _What we need is some rock,_ or randomly leaving pebbles on his desk, or just going out of his way to make every possible pun involving ‘rock’.

What really made Eames crack up, though, was comparing everything Arthur built to that damned mountain range. He’d comment about how that one building was way too small, and that Arthur had gotten them used to _much_ _bigger_ things in the past. Cobb participated sometimes, when he was in the mood. Even Dr. Miles had made a size-related joke, which had made Eames practically _beam_ at her.

Arthur was positive Eames would never drop the subject.

_(You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.)_


	11. Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to katythereader for beta-ing this one!

October 11th: Run 

* * *

They were on the run.

Well, Dom was on the run. Arthur was simply sticking with him for reasons that seemed pretty dark to the rest of the dreamshare community. Most of them didn’t understand the concept of _team_ ; they worked with people they didn’t allow themselves to trust, taking their share of the money once the job was done and going their separate ways.

Arthur and Dom were different from them in that way. They’d been sticking together ever since Project Somnacin had gone to shit, using their combined genius to create things even the army hadn’t dared imagine. There was Mal too, of course, but Arthur couldn’t think about her for too long anymore. It wasn’t doing them any good. Still, Mal was one of the reasons Arthur was cleaning up Dom’s mess since he’d had to leave the US. It was hard; Dom was drowning himself in work, working through job after job on an unhealthy amount of sleep, accepting anything that could get them money. He barely checked the clients anymore. He needed Arthur now more than ever, needed him to have his back and be the perfect point man. Arthur suspected he only accepted his help because Arthur was his only remaining link to Philippa and James.

Arthur moved them from country to country when they weren’t on a job – which, granted, was rare. He had sold about half a dozen of his flats, those that were located in too dangerous places, in coutries whose governments really wanted to be on the US’s good side. The possibility of Dom getting arrested there was way too high. Arthur didn’t take any chances. Of course they sometimes had to land in one of those countries in order to complete a job. Arthur had a system in place for those cases, and many different aliases for them to choose form.

Arthur was also careful when it came to building a team, and only picked teammates in their circle – _friends_ , almost. They had never worked with Eames more often than in the last seven months. It was nice sometimes, giving both Dom and Arthur a sense of familiarity, like they were back in the army at the beginning of Project Somnacin. Then Mal’s blatant absence slapped them in the face, but they pretended not to notice the fire of its sting.

It was hard, and sometimes Arthur found himself wondering why he still did it, why he went through all the trouble. Dom wasn’t getting better, he was only more used to hiding everything and focusing on the jobs. He snapped at Arthur more and more, but Arthur would take that over the catatonic state Dom had been in the first few weeks after Mal.

He still held onto the childish hope that things would go back to normal one day.

In the meantime, they kept running.


	12. Shattered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta by katythereader, thank you so much for being overall awesome!

October 12th : Shattered

  1. broken at once into pieces



* * *

The first time it happens he’s five and wakes up crying for nine days straight. When his mom asks him what’s wrong with him, he can’t find words, and just sobs in her arms. She knows anyway, because she cries every night for the same reason, when she thinks he’s asleep and can’t hear her. He’ll never build the courage to tell her he cries with her.

_He’s standing in the middle of an immense, empty room. The floor is made out of pale wood, splattered with colors from the painted glass that forms a dome above him. It’s like someone’s cut a snowball in half and put him inside. He looks up to the painting, and sees light brown eyes, blonde hair. Motër. He tries to reach out to her, but the ceiling is too high. He keeps trying anyway, because he has to get to her somehow. Without warning the room starts to tremble violently, and suddenly the glass cracks, breaking the images in million pieces. He looks around and sees huge waves outside, slamming on the glass dome. It takes the water a handful of seconds before it shatters the dome, stealing the paint, sweeping him off his feet, and he’s drowning just like she did._

The dream comes back every night for a while, and then just stops.

***

He’s fifteen the next time the dream appears. The room is still the same, but the painted glass shows mountains towering over him. He turns around and can only see the grey of the rocks. He tries to escape, but it’s like the room expands with his steps, never letting him close to the glass. The images change as he runs past them, alternating between stone grey and the dirty blond of the desert. He notices some blue splatters in some places too, and what looks like a house he had buried in his memory.

He freezes when he hears a noise outside on the other side of the glass, like the low purr of a chopper. Suddenly people are yelling outside. He can make out the horrible sounds of a fight, and then a bullet pierces the dome.

He squeezes his eyes shut as more bullets fly around him, destroying the painted scenery. The fight is getting closer, louder, and all of a sudden a crowd of men carrying automatic rifles burst into the room, glass pieces raining down on them as the entire dome crumbles to the ground. He gets cut and shot and trampled on as he falls in the chaos of the battle raging around him.

He wakes up in a not-yet-familiar bedroom, and spends the remainder of the night practicing his English, trying his hardest not to listen to the TV in the room next to his. He can’t bear hearing the sound of gunshots and misery and _home_.

***

It happens again many years after, and it’ll be one of his last normal dreams before months spent messing with the subconscious will fuck him up enough to force him to turn to drugs just like Dom has. The room hasn’t changed, only the painted glass, just like last time. He looks around and his heart hurts as he recognizes short hair and kind, young eyes.

He’s used to working with dreams by now, and he knows what is going to happen. It _hurts_ , because he’s not sure he can see this again, but he takes a little comfort in the realisation that he’ll die along with her in this dream like he usually does.

He keeps an ear out for any disturbing noise, and spends the time he’s been allowed just looking at the paintings around him. He makes himself imprint the images in his mind and swears he’ll never forget.

Then a car crashes through the glass, smashing it to pieces, and he’s run over with such violence that he wakes up cold and trembling.

***

The next one, months later, is different. He can hear music around him, and he doesn’t have to open his eyes to know what he’ll see on the painted glass this time. He keeps his eyes closed, fighting back tears, and just waits for the dream to end.

He stays like this for what seems like an eternity, before the dome simply crumbles on itself, burying him under shards of glass.

He runs to the bathroom when he awakes, and vomits all that he had for dinner. As he rinses his mouth, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror, and can’t fight back the childish reaction of slamming his fist into it. The sting in his knuckles is nothing compared to the burning pain in his chest.

***

He’s twenty-seven when the dream comes back. The face on the painted glass is Eames’. _Fuck you, brain._ He has no idea what to expect this time, so he waits, trying his hardest not to get lost in green eyes.

A gun appears in his hand. As he looks down at it, confused, the black metal of the weapon glints slightly. His hand moves slowly to his temple, cocks the gun and shoots.

The bullet goes through his head, but he doesn’t wake up and _why isn’t he waking up, when you die in a dream you wake up_. His ears are ringing but he still doesn’t die. The bullet seems to have gone straight through his head and has lodged itself on the glass, a spiderweb of cracks erupting around it.

The room stands still for a few seconds. Arthur desperately tries to move, to do _anything_ , to shoot another bullet through his temple. His body is frozen.

Suddenly everything explodes, glass shards flying everywhere, cutting through him. It’s only then that he wakes up.

A few hours later he’s working, and his hand hovers over his phone. He still remembers the number.

He doesn’t call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Motër" is the Albanian word for "sister" accroding to the internet.


End file.
